CHAPTER 8: THE PARKING LOT CLASH
CHAPTER 8: THE PARKING LOT CLASH
We stepped out of the bank into a sudden, pouring rainstorm.
As we reached the concrete pillars of the parking garage, a shadow moved from behind a brick wall.
My father.
His expensive wool coat was soaked, his hair messy, his eyes wild with a manic, dangerous energy. He didn't look like the proud family patriarch anymore; he looked like a thief trapped in a corner.
âGive it to me,â he growled, pointing a shaking finger at the leather folder in my arms.
Chelsea stepped directly in front of me, shielding the folder with her own body.
âItâs over, Dad,â she said, her voice shaking but firm.
âStep aside, Chelsea!â he shouted, taking a step forward.
âYouâve always been the weak one who falls in line!â he yelled.
I stepped out from behind her, looking him dead in his bloodshot eyes.
âShe isn't weak,â I said, my voice cutting through the sound of the rain.
âShe is the one who finally told the truth in a courtroom,â I reminded him.
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âAnd that truth just stripped you of your very last lie,â I finalized.
